


For a Moment Of My Life

by Maple_Maypole



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Implied blue-veins-related sadness, Less Hurt/Comfort more Sad/Understanding, M/M, Oscar can't help but let himself be tricked when it's Zolf doing it, Oscar see yourself as a person worthy of care challenge, Set during the 18 month timeskip, This one's titled I Dont Know How To Tag My Fic, Zolf knows how to trick Oscar into self care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:01:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23231380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Maypole/pseuds/Maple_Maypole
Summary: Before the world has awakened, Oscar is already at his desk.
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 20
Kudos: 69





	For a Moment Of My Life

Oscar never really found much use for the word "tired." Even when accurate, it was most often also completely inconsequential.

Tired or not, he has work to do.

He takes a deep breath and looks over the mountain of paperwork laid on his desk. He swallows.

There were some… complications. They have caused his workload to suddenly become even heavier than usual: An unwelcome extra folder sitting on top of a thick stack of writing, on top of the worn wood of his desk. Next to it, a cup of coffee with nothing but the sticky remains of yesterday's dinner resting at the bottom.

He sits and hears the pages flutter, the wood creaking and disturbing the held silence of an early morning. The transgression feels utterly _wrong,_ in a way he knows doesn't actually have anything to do with the noises of his old desk.

Yes, in the rustling of numbers and printed words he can almost hear it - a yell, a shot. A story of dripping red inks mixing with blue lines- In parchment or skin, he isn't quite sure anymore.

He takes his quill and holds it in a white-knuckled grip, staring daggers at his slender and unsteady fingers until the tremors stop. 

He breathes in, feels the emptiness in his stomach gnaw at him. He breathes out.

It doesn't matter.

Oscar never found much use for the word "tragic," either. Not for himself. Kindness... Platitudes are useful, he knows that. He knows how to weave words into patterns and designs that will make everything easier for everyone. Knows how to sing in the right key, knows which chords will hurt and cut and which chords will soothe and calm. He knows.

He knows.

But he doesn't need it. He's fine without it.

Oscar swallows and when he finds his throat tight he swallows again, harder. He is very careful not to blink, as the only thing worse than feeling tears well up in his eyes would be feeling them roll down his cheeks.

Look at him, he thinks. Crying like a teenager, like that'll do anyone any good. He takes another shaky breath and counts every second he is losing, every second thrown away as he fights to breathe through the lead weight in his chest.

He woke up earlier than usual today, neglected to even make a cup of coffee. He wants to- he _needs_ to get through this as quickly as possible, even if he feels the jagged scar along his cheek sting and itch every time his eyes catch sight of...

He grits his teeth, opens the folder with one sharp movement, and knocks over the empty cup.

It wobbles for half a moment on the edge and then shatters against the floor with a loud crash. It seems to gore the remains of his still morning's silence until nothing but shock and rags remain, floating in torn mockery of peace.

Oscar feels his delayed reflexes act and reaches towards a cup that is no longer there. Instead, he unthinkingly follows his arm's inertia until he's on his feet, leaning over the desk with a hand outstretched towards the scattered ceramic.

He feels more than hears those familiar metallic footsteps approaching, echoing in his ribcage. He hears the door open with a soft creak, and a worried voice filter in.

He looks at the dwarven figure standing at the door and notices, of all things, how remarkable his bed-head is.

Oscar's quill slips from his fingers and lands on the desk with a gentle sound. He blinks.

Zolf approaches carefully and places a hand on Oscar's shoulder, applies just enough pressure to make him sit back down. Oscar feels that sturdy contact, the palm pressing into his bone like an anchor finally reaching the ground. It feels so real, so solid, it's almost overwhelming.

His shoulders slump and his eyes lower and, for just a moment, it looks like he might shatter too. Zolf feels him tremble under his hand as he wobbles precariously on the edge.

When Oscar looks up, his eyes are dry.

Zolf lifts his hand with a slight frown and glances over at the shattered mug.

"Sorry," Oscar manages. Zolf pauses and looks back at him.

"That's alright- I'll get the broom."

He looks tired, Zolf thinks for what must be the millionth time. He looks very, very tired.

"How 'bout," Zolf says, "You get started on breakfast while I clean this up?"

Oscar pauses. He looks at the desk, then at the floor, then at Zolf.

Zolf is looking back. His eyes are soft, but it's clear that he's not really giving him a choice in the matter.

He can be quite stubborn, Oscar thinks. The ghost of something warm sways gently in his chest before he can even think of stopping it.

"...Okay." Oscar's voice is uncharacteristically quiet, shrouded in the rags of his shattered morning. He gets up carefully and heads to their kitchen.

Oscar never found much use for the word "tired." Tired or not, there's work to be done, so why waste his breath?

He grabs some eggs out of the pantry.

He understands breakfast well enough, though. 

Outside, he can start to hear the quiet greetings of the early morning birds. Their song carries delicately through the window, unbothered.

He turns the stove on and places a pan on top of the fire.

A few rooms away, he's almost sure he can hear someone humming as they sweep.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen... I blame Hozier.  
> Title's from To Be Alone, because "Honey, when you kill the lights and kiss my eyes / I feel like a person for a moment of my life" smacked me in the face at a very inopportune hour and I just had to write a quick little something. Wilde is remarkably Not Fine.  
> As always, thank you if you've read this far! Comments are very much appreciated!!


End file.
